Only I could take a job such as laundering a sleeping bag and make it a full day's task. If you recall, I urinated into my friend JNAU's borrowed sleeping bag on the last day of our camping trip. I offered to replace the bag, but it's part of a matching set that she likes. There's not enough room in my washing machine for a sleeping bag, so I took it to the laundromat up the street.

Laundromats, as I recall from television and movies, are typically filled with single women, college girls, girls in their underwear because they're washing the clothes in which they were in. Folding tables are not for folding clothes but rather for anonymous sexual encounters.

The reality is me standing in front of a huge seventies styled washing machine with a garbage bag full of urine soaked sleeping bag. I'm all alone, which is good because I don't want anyone seeing me with a look of confusion on my face while trying to do a load of laundry. I know how to use my washing machine at home, but this is bewildering. I read the instructions:

Step 1: Look inside washing machine to ensure no children, pets, or foreign objects are inside.

No shit? My rule for warnings is that for a warning to exist someone had to make the mistake once. It had to happen at a laundromat. It had to be done by a lady with five kids with rollers in her hair and a fucking Virginia Slim in between her remaining teeth. My anticipated porno experience quickly became a white trash hell.

$5.00 to wash the sleeping bag. I'll be damned if I am going to return a sleeping bag in which I pissed to someone after washing it only once. Total cost was about $13.00 and half a day.

PUBLIC APOLOGY: to Marty for flaking on tennis today.

In order to save this website I've invited JNAU, a fellow writer, to submit postings on this blog. I hope she accepts because anger isn't really all that sexy and It's all that drives me at the moment. My diet consists of Red Bull, Vodka, and anger. Good stuff.

Dammit - Bob Denver dead at 70

Meanwhile I just got done working out. I feel under seige right now with the ex and my friends pissing me off. I've dug deep into the trenches of my massive cell phone list for girls I ignored for someone else because I want to make up an excuse for my leaving and try to have sex with them again. I don't even want to have sex with girls because I like them, but because I'm angry at my ex. I'm what you might call a prick.

I haven't gotten laid off this site for a while, I know that posting the last paragraph would kill my chances. So, let's keep this our little secret... 'k?

Gooch:back

Just got back from a rafting trip. I was reminded of my mortality when in the first set of rapids I was thrown from my raft and into an eddy where I tumbled under water for some 15-20 seconds. Death comes unexpectedly and in run-on sentences. The 25 people in the rafting party saw me go under and my paddle float away, which looks really fucking ominous. I made it out and soaked up the sympathy from the female rafters in the party.

Three nights and three days I drank more beer than I have in a long time. Seventy-five per cent of my caloric intake was from Coors Light. Breakfast, lunch, dinner. This morning I woke up in my jeans, soaked in urine, in my friend JNAU's sleeping bag.

Fuck. No one else in the camp party (except for JNAU) knew about it, but I share it with you.

I'm single now. Old School. I'm revamping this site. I almost killed it - shut down the seerver for good. It has jumped the shark. At what point do you think it jumped?

*Gooch graduates from college.
*Jam Magazine folds.
*Gooch appears on Jim Spagg's cable access show. Twice.
*Gooch and Cheryl break up.
*Gooch removes angry drunken post against Cheryl from the blog.
*Gooch loses his job.
*Gooch appears in daytime commercials recruiting deprssion study subjects.
*Gooch gets together with Meggan.
*Gooch breaks up with Meggan.
*Gooch gets back together with Meggan.
*Gooch removes posted picture of himself in a hot tub with a 20. year-old with whom he had sex because it hurt Meggan's feelings.


There's so much more that I have to do. I'm single again. For the first time in two years I'm happy. Not the kind of happy that comes from shotgunning a beer or waking up to a not-so-ugly chick. I do get drunk but I laugh myself to sleep instead of having panic attacks or wondering who I threw a fucking pool cue at the night before. I can make out with random chicks and not get emotionally attached. My only decision tonight is where Marty and I are going to get cocktails. Tomorrow: no alarm clock; just like every other day. Some people may judge, say I'm too old to live like this. Some say I should be more ambitious. Some people might even try to organize an intervention. These people may also want to bounce my balls on their tongue for a solid five minutes.

It's happy hour somewhere right now. I'm happy and I'm out.

GOOCH:out.

Quote of the week: "You kiss just like my husband." - said to me Monday morning

This was sent from my friend Marty.
The band changed their name to Black Eyed Peed.
No Fergie... it's Black Eyed Peas. With an 'a', you know...
Let's get it started? I think she's done.
I'd still jerk off to her.
She phunked with her pants.
"Dude... Fergie's pissed!"
[your caption here]

I am a rock star...?

Last night was an epic hard core bender resulting in an hours-long blackout and lengthy descriptions from witnesses about my behavior. I did something with someone last night that I should really fucking feel guilty about. This morning I kept wondering why I didn't feel guilty. It was because I was still drunk. It's alright, I'm hiding out at my friend Nikki's house tonight. I joined a gym officially today. Feels good working out again. It's like I became single and suddenly realized that I'm fucking fat. God Dammit.

Festa Italiana this weekend in Portland and a rafting trip the week after that.

I feel like Doogie Howser typing on this thing.

I am a rock star. Unleashed an attack on my liver last night. I remember being drunk and hanging my leg over the side of a tall building my friends and I snuck on to. I also put my hands over the satellite dish's receiver, assumingly rendering some guests without some video for a couple of seconds.

Paging Dr. Jack Daniels.

I love JD. I drink it on the rocks. I drink it in my socks. I drink it on the floor. I drink it with a whore. I drink it at a party. I drink it with my friend Marty. I drink it at happy hour. I drink it in the shower. I drink it in the... what the fuck am I writing?

Have a wedding to go to tonight. Ninety degrees with a shirt and tie. Fuck. Rafting next weekend. Sweet.